Читать книгу More Than Words: Stories of Strength: Close Call / Built to Last / Find the Way - Karen Harper, Carla Neggers - Страница 7

A dirt-encrusted mountain bike. A battered kayak. Free weights loose on the floor. Gym clothes and squash rackets hanging from a pegboard. Street and ice hockey sticks leaned up against the wall.

Brendan O’Malley’s idea of how to welcome guests to his place.

As she stepped into the foyer, Jessica Stewart told herself there were no surprises. It wasn’t as if she’d expected feng shui or something out of a decorating magazine. She loved the guy. She really did. She didn’t know if she was in love with him, but that was a problem for later—right now, she had to fight her way into his apartment and find out what he was up to.

Jess stuffed the key that O’Malley’s brother Mike—the firefighter brother—had loaned her. Brendan was one of the cop brothers, a Boston homicide detective. The other cop brother, the youngest, was just starting out. There was also a carpenter brother and a marine brother. Five O’Malley brothers in all. At thirty-four, Brendan was smack in the middle. A guy’s guy.

There was, in other words, no logical reason Jess should have expected anything but hockey sticks in the foyer.

Brendan and Mike owned the triple-decker and were renovating it as an investment property. Brendan had the first-floor apartment to himself.

Jess had rung the doorbell. She’d pounded on the door.

Taking Detective O’Malley by surprise wasn’t a good idea under any circumstances, but today it was really a bad one.

He’d almost been killed yesterday.

She hoped the kayak and mountain bike were a sign that he was still in town. Even his brothers didn’t want him going off on his own so soon after a trauma.

Using the toe of her taupe pumps, Jess rolled the dumbbells aside and entered the living room. It was her first time inside his apartment. Their on-again, off-again relationship over the past two months had been at theaters, restaurants and her condo on the waterfront. They hadn’t had so much as a candlelight dinner at his place.

No wonder.

It wasn’t that it was a pigsty in the sense of trash and garbage all over the floors and furniture. He didn’t live like a rat—or with rats. His apartment simply reflected his priorities. He had a flat-screen television, stacks of DVDs, an impressive stereo system, a computer, shelves of books on the Civil War and more sports equipment. In the living room.

He wasn’t much on hanging up his clothes, either.

Mike had warned Jess when she talked him into giving her the keys to his younger brother’s apartment. Brendan had lived on his own for a long time. His apartment was his sanctuary, his world away from his work as a detective.

Inviolable, and yet here she was.

She walked into the adjoining dining room. The table was stacked with car, sports and electronic gaming magazines and a bunch of flyers and guidebooks on Nova Scotia—another sign, she hoped, that he hadn’t already left.

He needed to be with his family and friends right now. Not off on his own in Nova Scotia. Everyone agreed.

Jess continued down the length of the apartment to the kitchen. A short hall led to the bathroom and bedroom. The bedroom door was shut, but she knew she’d never have gotten this far if he were on the premises. It was only five o’clock—she’d come straight from the courthouse—but he’d taken the day off.

No dirty dishes in the sink or on the counter, none in the dishwasher.

Not a good sign.

The house was solid, built about a hundred years ago in a neighborhood that wasn’t one of Boston’s finest, and had a lot of character. Brendan and Mike were doing most of the work themselves, but they were obviously taking their time—both had demanding jobs. They’d pulled up the old linoleum in the kitchen, revealing narrow hardwood flooring, and scraped off layers of wallpaper. Joe, the carpenter brother, had washed his hands of the place.

Jess peeked out onto the enclosed back porch, stacked with tools and building materials, all, presumably, locked up tight.

Brendan had mentioned, over a candlelight dinner at her place, that a couple of jazz musicians lived in the top floor apartment, a single-mother secretary with one teenage daughter in the middle floor apartment. He and Mike had fixed up the upper-floor apartments first because they provided income and allowed them to afford the taxes and mortgage.

Taking a breath, Jess made herself crack open the door to his bedroom.

It smelled faintly of his tangy aftershave. The shades were pulled.

The telephone rang, almost giving her a heart attack.

So much for having a prosecutor’s nerves of steel.

She waited for the message machine.

“Stewart?” It was O’Malley. “I know you’re there. I got it out of Mike. Pick up.”

No way was she picking up.

“All right. Suit yourself. I’m on my way to Nova Scotia. I’m fine.”

She grabbed the phone off his nightstand. “You left your bike and kayak.”

“Don’t need them.” She could hear the note of victory in his tone now that he’d succeeded in getting her on the line. “Place I’m going has its own bikes and kayaks.”

She noticed his bed was made, not that neatly, but he’d put in the effort. “Why sneak off?”

“I didn’t want a lot of grief from everyone.”

“Brendan—come on. You had a bullet whiz past your head yesterday. You need to be with family and friends.”

“The bullet didn’t whiz through my head. Big difference. It just grazed my forehead. A little blood, that’s it. I get banged up worse than that playing street hockey. A couple days’ kayaking and walking on the rocks in Nova Scotia, and I’ll be in good shape.”

“Did you bring your passport? You know, they don’t just let you wave on your way across the border these days—”

“Quit worrying. I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine,” Jess said. “You sound like you’re trying to sound fine.”

“What are you now, Stewart? Ex-cop, hard-ass prosecutor, or would-be girlfriend?”

She stood up straight, catching her reflection in the dresser mirror. Chestnut hair, a little frizzed up given the heat and humidity. Pale blue suit in an industrial-strength fabric that didn’t wrinkle, repelled moisture, held its shape through the long hours she put in.

Definitely a former police officer, and now a dedicated prosecutor.

How on earth had she become Brendan O’Malley’s would-be girlfriend?

“Don’t flatter yourself, Detective. Just because we’ve seen each other a few times doesn’t mean I’m mooning over you—”

He laughed. “Sure you are.”

“I’ve known you forever.”

“You haven’t been sleeping with me forever.”

True. She’d slept with him that one time, two weeks ago. Since then, he’d been acting as if it had been a fast way to ruin a perfectly good friendship. Maybe she had, too. They’d known each other since her days at the police academy, when O’Malley had assisted with firearms training. He was only two years out of the academy himself, but even then everyone knew he was born to be a detective. She’d been attracted to him. What woman wasn’t? They’d become friends, stayed friends when she went to law school nights and then took her job as a prosecutor. She’d never even considered dating him—never mind sleeping with him—until two months ago.

She could feel the first twinges of a headache. “Some crazy fairy with a sick sense of humor must have whacked me with her magic fairy wand to make me want to date you.”

“Honey, we haven’t just dated—”

“Don’t remind me.”

“Best night of your life.”

He was kidding, but she knew what had happened that night. Brendan O’Malley, stud of studs, had gone too far. He’d been tender and sexy and intimate in a way that had scared the hell out of him. Now he was backpedaling. Pretending it was her chasing him and it was all a game.

“O’Malley—Brendan—”

“I’m losing the connection. I’m up here somewhere in moose country. Quit worrying, okay? I’ll call you when I get back.”

“I might never make it out of this damn apartment of yours. I’ll need a compass to navigate through all your stuff.”

But he wasn’t making up the bad connection, and his cell phone suddenly blanked out altogether, leaving Jess standing there in his bedroom, his phone dead in her hand.

She cradled it with more force than was necessary.

Bravado. That was all this was about.

O’Malley was shaken by yesterday’s close call. He and his partner had entered a seedy hotel to question a possible witness in a murder, only to have the guy throw down his backpack, turn and run. An ancient .38 fell out of the backpack, hit the floor and went off.

The bullet just barely grazed O’Malley’s forehead.

It could have killed him. It could have killed anyone in the vicinity.

O’Malley was treated on the scene. He wasn’t admitted or even transported to the hospital. As he’d said, he was fine.

Physically.

It was his third close call that year. The sheer randomness of this latest one had gotten to him. He wasn’t a target. The witness wasn’t a suspect in the murder, wasn’t trying to kill him or anyone else, said he had the .38 for his own protection—never mind that he was now charged with carrying a concealed weapon, possession of a weapon in violation of his probation, and assault with a deadly weapon.

Over dinner with Jess last night, after he’d been debriefed, Brendan had admitted he didn’t think he’d get this one out of his mind that easily. He kept seeing the gun fall out of the backpack. He kept feeling himself yell, “Gun!” and jump back, an act that had saved his life. The heat of the bullet, the reaction of his partner, the paramedics—he remembered everything, and it played like a movie in his head, over and over.

“In the blink of an eye,” he said, “that would have been all she wrote on the life of Brendan O’Malley.”

He’d wanted to be alone that night.

When Jess called to check on him in the morning, he blamed his moroseness the evening before on the shrinks and too much wine and said he was heading off on his own for the weekend.

She’d talked to a few people, who all agreed it might not be a good idea for him to be alone right now. He needed his support network. Family and friends. Time to process what was, after all, a scary incident, no matter that it had a happy ending.

Not that Detective O’Malley would listen to her or anyone else.

Jess wandered back out to the dining room and flipped through the brochures and guidebooks on Nova Scotia. She’d never been to the Canadian Maritime Provinces—she’d only been to Canada a few times, including the usual high-school French-class trip to Montreal in Quebec.

The brochures were inviting. The pictures of the rocky coastline, the ocean, cliffs, beaches, kayakers, fishing boats, harbors, quaint inns and restaurants. The Lighthouse Route. Cape Breton Island. The Evangeline Trail.

So many possibilities.

How would she ever find him?

No one had shot at her lately, but Jess could feel the effects of her months of nonstop work. She’d just finished a major trial and could afford to take a few days off. She knew better than to get in too deep with O’Malley, but she had to admit she’d fantasized about going somewhere with him. She kept telling herself that she was well aware he wasn’t the type for long-term commitments—she had her eyes wide-open. She didn’t mind if they just had some fun together.

He’d mentioned getting out of town together for a few days. Casually, not with anything specific in mind, but it at least suggested that the only reason he hadn’t invited her to go with him to Nova Scotia was the shooting. It had only been a day. He wouldn’t want to inflict himself on her.

She noticed that he’d circled a bed-and-breakfast listed on a Web site printout.

The Wild Raspberry B and B.

Cute. Cheeky, even. Jess smiled to herself and, before she could talk herself out of it, dialed the Wild Raspberry’s number.

A woman answered.

Jess reminded herself she was a prosecutor accustomed to delicate situations. For the most part, it was best to come to the point. “Hello—a friend of mine has a reservation with you this weekend. Brendan O’Malley.”

“Right. He’s not due to arrive until tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” Jess said, hanging up.

Of course.

He was in moose country. That meant he’d gone farther north than Portland, Maine, and wasn’t taking the ferry to Nova Scotia from there. He must have decided to drive up to Mount Desert Island and catch the ferry out of Bar Harbor. He had to be booked on one of the ferries, since it would take forever for him to drive all the way up through Maine and New Brunswick.

Jess dug some more on the dining-room table and found a printout of the ferry schedule from Bar Harbor to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia.

Bingo.

If she hurried, she could make the overnight ferry from Portland, about two hours north of Boston, and maybe even beat O’Malley to the Wild Raspberry.

After he checked into a small, tidy motel in Bar Harbor on Maine’s Mount Desert Island, Brendan O’Malley walked over to the cheapest-looking restaurant he could find and ordered fried shrimp and beer. There was fresh raspberry pie on the dessert menu, but he passed. Once he got to Nova Scotia, he’d be staying at a place with a name like Wild Raspberry, so he figured he’d have another chance.

He touched the bandage on the left side of his forehead, just above his eyebrow.

Man. Talk about luck.

The graze didn’t hurt at all. He could take the bandage off anytime. He figured he’d let it fall off in the shower.

His brother Mike had arrived at the scene. “Brendan—damn. You are one lucky cop. How many of your nine lives have you used up now?”

“Eleven.”

Gallows humor, but Mike understood. He’d had his share of brushes with death in his work. They both counted on their training, their experience, the people who backed them up—they didn’t want to count on luck.

Luck was unpredictable. Fickle.

And it could run out.

Brendan shook off any hint of encroaching self-pity and paid for his dinner. He’d have to walk all the way to Nova Scotia to burn off the fried shrimp, but he settled for an evening stroll along Bar Harbor’s pretty streets, not overly crowded with summer tourists. He had a reservation on the morning Cat ferry, which shortened the normal six-hour trip from Bar Harbor across the Gulf of Maine to less than three hours.

Marianne Wells, the owner of the Wild Raspberry, had assured him he’d have peace and quiet at her B and B. She only had three guest rooms. One was free, one was occupied by a hiker, and then there was the room she’d reserved for him.

O’Malley had debated pitching a tent somewhere on the coast for a few days, but Jess would have regarded that as total nut behavior under the circumstances and hunted him down for sure—or, more likely, sent someone after him. There wasn’t much that could pry her away from her job as a county prosecutor. She was a worse workaholic than he was.

A disaster in the making. That was what their relationship was.

Except he couldn’t imagine not having Jess Stewart in his life. She’d been there so long—forever, it seemed.

He didn’t want to screw things up by falling for her.

Mike had said she’d looked worried when she’d talked him into giving her the key to his place. Brendan doubted it. Jess had been a cop for five years, earning her law degree part-time. She wasn’t a worrier. She just didn’t like it that he’d skipped out on her.

What the hell, he didn’t owe her anything. He didn’t even know how they’d ended up dating. He’d always thought of her as a kind of kid sister.

Mike hadn’t bought that one. “There isn’t one thing O’Malley about her. You’re in denial, brother.”

Ten years Brendan had known Stewart, and not until two months ago had he seriously thought about sleeping with her. Maybe she was right, and they’d both been struck by some crazy fairy with a weird sense of humor.

They’d gone to dinner and the movies a few times. Jess had dragged him on a tour of the Old North Church because he was from Boston and he’d never seen it, and that just couldn’t stand another minute as far as she was concerned. But she was a native Bostonian, and had she ever been to a Bruins hockey game? One time, when she was ten. It barely counted.

O’Malley found a flat stone and skipped it into the smooth, gray water of the harbor. He had to stop thinking about Attorney Stewart. Their relationship wasn’t going anywhere. They’d slept together that one time a couple weeks ago, before the shooting, but that had just been one of those things. Spontaneous, unplanned, inevitable.

He’d been such a mush, too. He couldn’t believe it.

He heaved a long sigh, feeling a headache coming on that had nothing to do with the bullet that had missed his brain pan by not very much at all.

Back at his motel, he flopped on his sagging double bed and stared at the ceiling.

Nova Scotia. He could just skip it and hang out on Mount Desert Island for a few days—except the same instinct that had prompted him to jump back a half-step yesterday, thus saving his life, told him to head east. He’d been gathering brochures on Nova Scotia for weeks, checking out the tourist sites on the Internet, poring over maps, all with some vague idea that he should go there.

Maybe it was karma or something.

With his head bandaged up last night and his brother’s talk of using up his nine lives, he’d stared at the lodging list he’d printed off the Internet, picked out a B and B that looked good and called.

Now here he was, on his way. Alone.

Jess could have a point that he shouldn’t be alone.

“Too late.”

He hit the power button on the TV remote and checked out what was going on in the world, feeling isolated and removed and suddenly really irritated with himself. But he was nothing if not stubborn, and he needed a few days to pull his head together, not just about the shooting, but about Jess.

He thought of her dark eyes and her cute butt and decided the bullet yesterday was the universe giving him a wake-up call. What did he think he was doing, falling for Jessica Stewart?

He had no intention of tucking tail and going home.